The Room
by Elphaba01
Summary: As soon as Sirius and Helena Black came out of Hogwarts, they expected it to be as normal as it could be - well, while being magical, of course. But with a dark future looming ahead, hardly any money to pay for the bills, a war to be won, a manic manhunt, crazy redheads and a stupid bloody plus sign, it's sure not going to be easy... Sirius/OC, James/Lily
1. The Art Room

**NEW STORAYY! WHOO! **

**Many people have had this sort of idea before, but every other fanfiction with this said idea (despite how much I love them) have been really ... repetitive. Like, all the OCs have gone through troubles during Hogwarts, drama drama, "Aw, no, Voldemort's here! SHUCKS!", heart-breaking short deaths and shit, Sirius is in Azkaban and there's no daddy to meet the spawn! Arrghhh heartbreak noooo**

**So I've put my own spin on the idea. I hope it's... different, somehow. It's a very exciting ****experiment for me with an OC I have already connected with! Yay!**

**Enjoy! ^_^**

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1: The Art Room

Helena sat by the table, staring out the window and at the people walking down the streets. She marvelled at how different they all walked; some plodded, some strolled with swag, some jogged, ran, sprinted – a boy even fell over in his hurry to go to school.

But none of them were him.

Gathering her golden locks into a messy ponytail, she let out a sigh, looking down at the stick that was in her hands. For some wild reason she felt the need to do it the Muggle way – she spent so many years in the wizarding world that she almost forgot the easiest ways of the simplest of things.

It wasn't _simple_, as such. Complicated, but –

Her eyes widening at the awkwardness her mind had made out for her, she slammed the stick back down on the table, scurrying back to her new art room in the rather large flat they shared, trying to breathe out her apprehensive nervousness and instead inhale her inner artist. Closing her eyes as she picked up her trusty paintbrush, she dipped it into the cotton pink in her palette laid out on the small rounded coffee table and spontaneously flicked it.

Hesitantly peeping out of one eye, she looked at canvas to find that it was still clear of any bright pink. Disappointed, she tragically stared at the pink stain on her carpet.

That was another thing to pay for.

Ashamedly, they were in a financial crisis – as soon as Sirius got out of school, he decided to spend his Uncle Alfred's money on booze and numerous of useless things that he hardly used; well, he _did _use his flying magical bike quite often, laughing maniacally as he would soar above the clouds (which Helena found highly amusing), – but Sirius was unemployed, being too busy with Order stuff, and her job at the Leaky Cauldron was hardly sustainable for them, nevermind a –

She dipped her paintbrush back into the paint, more forcefully than planned, this time choosing a deep hazel brown – Sirius's favourite colour.

Absentmindedly, she wondered if the painting would be considered lucky; with a huge blob of brown and plain white – their preferred colours (despite the fact that white wasn't a colour, only a shade, but Helena decided to ignore that) – perhaps it would be good fortune. For the future.

She looked down, once again, at her seemingly-normal stomach.

_For the future_.

In total, she took five of those sticks, those test thingies. All of them came out positive, with a little plus sign that she had grown to dislike, at first getting mildly irritated at the repetitive, bothersome, _infuriating _outcome. When she struck the third one, her initial reaction to it all flew out the window and she started hyperventilating, hurrying to the corner apothecary much like the boy who fell over on his way to school to get another packet more.

It all started when she started throwing up regularly in the mornings, around a couple of weeks ago. Sirius, of course, was by her side at the toilet seat – always, he was always there – but today he had to dash off; apparently there was an unscheduled meeting. Stubbornly, she persisted on coming, but he somehow got her to stay.

"Paint me a painting," he had told her cheekily with a grin, pecking her quickly on the lips as he hastily shrugged on his leather jacket. "That's your new thing of the week, isn't it?"

She had only shaken her head in a 'do-you-ever-stop' manner in a proper reply, before darting off to the loo once more with more regurgitation. A snigger rang through the hall, making her raise her head from the toilet. "Sirius, just get out before I'll have to give you this bloody bug!" she snapped, something that was unusual in itself.

"Love you, too!" he sang, oblivious to the change of mood, before the slam of the door echoed across the flat and silence rang in her ears – only, until the sickening splash of her sick hit the toilet water.

_She was in that room for an hour._

A shiver ran through her shoulders just _thinking_ about it.

Helena stopped herself from dipping her brush into the sunflower yellow, stepping back and examining her painting. Pinks, browns, blues, yellows, greens – it was a mush of everything. Very hectic, very noisy – it translated what she was thinking perfectly, even a plus sign she seemed to have slashed across the smooth paper without realising.

The plus sign seemed bigger than it really was, looming out at her and making her feel even more nauseous and scared than before. It was dead in the middle, and even though the painting wasn't all that bad – she hated it.

_That plus sign._

A loud three knocks from the front door broke her away from her frightened thoughts. Although she was usually thrilled with seeing Sirius once again – him being knee-deep in the Order (she was only a toe in) and her working in the Leaky Cauldron – nervousness flooded through her.

The fumbling of turning the keys the right way; door opening; the heavy footsteps coming nearer and nearer.

"Lena?" Sirius's low voice called out, hesitant and anxious, like he usually was after a meeting. "You alright? Where are you?"

She took a deep breath, forcing a smile; he was her husband! She didn't need to be afraid of a petty thing like telling him a _small _bit of news. "Yeah, I'm OK. In the art room!"

"Art room?" Confusion filled his tone, his normal confidence back to normal now that he heard her voice. She turned around to the door, waiting for him to come through it, but after hearing an increase in speed, he flashed right past it.

She let out a giggle, a real smile lighting up her face. The sight of her husband always cheered her up, despite the many things she could be down about. For instance, _that plus sign_.

Rolling her eyes, she bit her lip and gripped the brush that little bit harder. "Love, I'm in here."

"Could a told me, woman," he grumbled, but he still raced down to the room, using the frame of the door to help him slide effortlessly along the glossy wooden floorboards and into the room. Her eyes sparkled with something that wasn't there moments ago, her lips curling up at him.

His grey eyes analysed her from top to bottom; from her fluffy white slippers that were clearly for comfort, to her blue jeans that were decorated with splodges of greens, pinks and blues; to her colourful apron that was almost identical to the palette, and to her (most probably) dirty, mucky face that was filled with blue (she recalled on going pretty wild with that one).

"I probably look like a Smurf," she blurted, slightly smirking as she scratched the back of her neck guiltily.

"I don't even know what that is," he said, letting out a bark-like laugh and taking a few steps towards her, "but you're still as beautiful as the day I married you."

"Sirius, it was only two months ago," she dead-panned, though humour still glinted in her eyes.

He pulled out his tongue at her immaturely, close enough to loop his muscular arms around her hips and tower over her, face inches away from hers. "Still, has a nice ring to it, doesn't it, Mrs Black?"

"_Ring _to it," she giggled, looking down and fiddling with the simple golden ring on her left hand. "Seems like you're the master of puns nowadays, Mr Black."

Tilting her chin up to meet her eyes, his grey orbs bored into hers before he captured his lips with hers. Warmth spread through her body, a tingling running up her spine as his hands spread out to stabilise her back; he didn't do the rubbing-of-the-small-of-her-back thing because it both made her break out into laughter and partly conscious of her mole situated in that area – a lesson he was taught when she broke out into a mood with him a whole day.

She brought off her hands to stroke the side of his face with her thumbs, letting out her small contented sigh at the sensation of cigarettes, petrol, earthy wood and – and metal?

Almost immediately, she pulled away, studying his eyes to look for a lie. "What did you do?" she said interrogatingly. "What happened in the Order?"

He stepped away from her, his shoulders slumped guiltily, his hands slipping in his coat pockets and hanging his head in shame. Helena knew this stance – he used it all the way through school, a natural habit of looking apologetic and making that come across.

After analysing him more closely, she gasped, picking up on the small cuts and bruises etched across his face, neck, and arms – probably under his shirt as well. His beige track-bottoms – he didn't wear those this morning – was wet, _sopping _wet, his skin paler than usual, lips bruised and red, his dark locks of hair embedded with twigs and liquid.

Blood.

How come she didn't notice it before?

She rushed across the room, swallowing her disappointment in him, grabbing hold of his wrist and leading him to the kitchen, a quite small part of the flat compared to the other rooms. A small, rounded table for two with two chairs – one of which she sat on mere hours ago –marble flooring, and two parallel laminate work tops running along the sides, cupboards underneath them and hovering over them – that made the kitchen, her haven for her stage of food, which was, according to Sirius, "last week's thing", but really was a week-long experiment that ended up wrong.

"Sit," she instructed stoically, practically shoving him onto a seat. With trembling hands, she rummaged through the cupboards for the First Aid Kit that Dumbledore provided them for, and after three minutes of frantic searching she found it, a little dusty from lack of use. Throwing it onto the table, she opened it up and snatched numerous rolls of bandage.

"Look, I'm –"

"Take your shirt off," she demanded, sighing stressfully for the five hundredth time that day as she shoved her hand in her pocket, in search for her wand. Crossing her eyebrows in frustration, she muttered a tired "Be right back", speed-walking to their bedroom and retrieving it from the nightstand.

"Helena?" Sirius's said in an amusingly unlevelled tone just as she came back to the kitchen. She widened her hazel eyes at what he was holding.

_The stick_.

"Sirius –"

"You took a Muggle pregnancy test?" He gave her a wide-eyed, shocked look, which didn't look especially great with the pale face and the now bare upper-half of his body, which had a huge nasty gash across his chest. "You pissed on a stick? Why? You're not – you're not _pregnant_."

She chose not to answer, deciding to concentrate on wounds. Wand pointed at his chest, she mumbled, "_Tergeo_." The blood vanished. "_Vulnera Sanentur. Vulnera Sanentur _–"

"Helena?"

"_Vulnera Sanentur." _The wound healed, she moved on to his head injury, nonverbally charming the bandages as she _Tergeo_'ed the wound. Biting her lip to stop herself from going to pieces and bursting into tears about the whole awful, _horrible _day so far, she sat down into the seat on the other side of the table, looking out the window.

The street was empty.

"Helena," Sirius said, his tone serious with a tinge of worry. "Look at me."

Head resting against the window, she set her hazel gaze on him, desperately trying to preserve her emotions for when she _wasn't _affected by the plus sign or Sirius purposefully lying or her stomach-bug-but-not-really-stomach-bug.

But it shown through anyway, it seemed, since he knitted his eyebrows, concerned.

"Hm?" she said noncommittally.

"Why'd you take this?" he said, holding up the stick.

Sighing (again), she swivelled around in her chair so she properly faced him, anxiously wringing her hands under the table. "I've been, ah, _counting days_," she told him, her throat feeling heavy and clogged up. "The stomach bug – it's – it's not a stomach bug, Sirius." With a small, hesitant smile, trying to seem supportive, she pointed at the plus sign, thinking it was obvious. When she received a blank expression, she gave up on the subtle pointers. "I _am_ pregnant."

He stared.

And stared.

_And stared_.

Helena thought he was about to faint, his eyes were so wide and his face paler than before (if that was possible). Biting her lip, she wiped away the aggravated tears in her eyes with her sleeve and patiently awaited his reaction.

"You're pregnant," he choked out.

"Yes, honey." It was rare when she called him that; only on special occasions such as these that needed subtle comforting did she use 'honey'.

"You're pregnant."

She nodded. "With your baby," she added.

If it were possible, his eyes bulged even wider. "So we're in the middle of the war, where hundreds of people just like you and me are murdered every day, and you're pregnant."

"Yes, Sirius."

Of course, Helena knew what he was going to do before he did. Sighing, she looked down and fiddled with her hands, giving a subtle sniff – she didn't want to cry into shambles when he needed her to stand tall, proud and confident about their future, what they were about to get thrown into.

"Love you."

With an echoing crack, she was not shocked to find that Sirius had Disapparated out of the apartment.


	2. The Bar

**Wi-Fi went really weird over this last week... sorreh.**

**Thanks for the follows, favorites and one review! :P**

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2: The Bar

"Right, Padfoot," James said with a knowing grin as Rosmerta skidded his Firewhiskey across the oak bar table. The dim light of the Three Broomsticks lit half of his face, his teeth shining. "What's it now? Commitment issues?"

Shaking his head and giving a roll of his eyes, Sirius took his pint a bit too eagerly, ignoring the burn in his throat, the guilt of leaving his wife alone for the night, the news – _everything_ – and instead concentrated on embracing the gentle numbing of his jumbled up mind.

Undoubtedly, his initial reaction would come straight afterwards. But he didn't want to think about that right now. He didn't want to think at all.

Rosmerta gave him a warning look, raising an eyebrow at his Firewhiskey and pouting her lips. Smacking his lips at the dryness, he gave an inquisitive look back, not ready to face his wife's brutally curious close friend's questions in that moment.

In fact, he dreaded the moment when he would have to.

He glugged down half his glass at the thought.

"Commitment issues?" he snorted. "I'm the one who's married, Prongs."

James looked almost affronted. "Who's the one who pined after the same girl for seven damn years? Me!" he added, not waiting for an answer.

Sirius wasn't bothered to mention the small period of time during sixth year when James had a six-week fling with Angela Viedro – an exotic Ravenclaw that he recalled was now a Quidditch player for some team that _obviously _wasn't a Wasp – the reaction being an outraged argument about the present and how nobody should live in the past.

He didn't have time for that this particular evening.

Another swig. "Where's Moony and Pete, anyway? Thought they were coming," he said, a slight croak in his voice already from the whiskey. "They busy?"

"Moony's coming – he's just applying for another job." James's playful face morphed into a concerned one, looking at the pub's entrance. "That's the third one this month."

"Pete?" Sirius insisted, trying to change the subject; he didn't want to feel any type of remorse at all. "Where's he?"

"He told me he couldn't today – his girl, Finnie," James informed, giving a snigger and a roll of his eyes at their best friend's first girlfriend ever, before throwing his head back to drink. Giving a cough, he let out a hiss of agreement, nodding. "Oh, that's _good_."

"Another pint, Rosmerta?"

He knew he shouldn't get drunk – it was in the middle of a war, after all, and he left his now _pregnant _– he was still shocked – wife alone in the flat. But since when did he ever think things through?

Never.

So why did Sirius have to start now? He survived through it all then, he would survive through it all _now_.

"Something's on your mind, mate."

The dread of talking about it all, despite James being a brother to him in all but blood, made his stomach swirl uncertainly, an odd feeling Sirius didn't get much. Sighing regrettably, he took another swig of his now full Firewhiskey (Rosmerta probably got the hint concerning his lack of interest) and turned to his friend, wearing a mask of curiosity. "We just fought Death Eaters today and you're asking me what's on my _mind_?"

"Well, those types of folk don't really bother you." James shifted on his seat, his head tilting at him enquiringly, interested, his arm resting on the bar table and a wide smile on his face.

"What?" Sirius snapped, crossing his eyebrows.

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you are. You're doing that face."

"What face?"

"The one you're doing now," he said, trying to sound nonchalant as he raised an eyebrow – the superior expression was drilled into him since he was six, and over the years he learnt that was the only thing he was grateful of from his family.

That, and his stunning aristocratic looks. It helped with wooing Helena.

"That 'you-don't-have-to-tell-me-but-you-do-because-I'll -find-out-anyway' one," he added.

His smirk grew wider. "What will I find out?

Sirius could see what James was doing before it was about to come into play; the dinnertimes he witnessed when James used to do it with Lily at Hogwarts were far too many to even forget. It was only to wind him up, to get infuriated – a sly ploy to get him to say what happened.

Sighing, he realised that he was already practically defeated; James's insistence was so annoying that it should've been his profession – though, Sirius only got peeved when he used it on him.

Another swig, except with this one it was to drain out his dread. "It's Helena."

"Ah," said James, smiling gravely as if he knew. "Always the ladies."

"Prongs, it's not just about _her_." Well, it was, but not really. Not anymore. "It's a little bit... bigger than that."

"What is?"

The two swivelled around in their barstools to find Remus, symbolizing the aftermath of a hurricane; his brown trench coat was creased and filled with dirt, odd splatters of food and a familiar colour of paint. Almost as if it was telepathic, James ordered for another pint and ordered for his friend to sit down, Remus sighing as he did so.

"What's got your knickers in a twist, Moony?" Sirius teased.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he went to glare at James for the charity but failed in doing so, choosing to drop his forehead onto the bar table. "I've managed to embarrass myself. Completely."

"Again?"

"Again," he said in confirmation, lifting his head and realising all the remaining sticky alcohol that was on the surface now clung to his uncombed, tousled hair. With a groan, he downed half of his Firewhiskey, thanking James with the corner of his eye. "I don't know how I manage it, but I do – blame the wolf instincts."

"Last time I remembered, wolves don't embarrass themselves daily," said James matter-of-factly, in a tone that mocked his girlfriend's. "It wasn't in the _exams_!"

Barking out a laugh, Sirius swivelled around so his back leaned against the table, his elbows resting against it. "What'd you do this time?"

"I tried for Madame Malkin's," he admitted. "There was an employee needed – there was this huge sign in front of the store – so I decided it was worth a shot. But then when I came in for the interview, there was a bunch of girls there, too, trying for the job. The whole interview was in front of them, though. Had to dress in ridiculous robes and tie pink robes around myself... yeah, that didn't end up especially well."

"Look at you," Sirius mused. "All masculine and _flirty_."

"Before know it, you'll be just as good as pensioners," added James. "Just you wait."

Remus glared. "I'm not that bad."

"Yes you _are_," James replied, wafting a hand casually. "You manage to make the really smooth pick-up lines sound like shit poetry, Moony."

"Unlike me," said Sirius. "Who makes it sound like a beautiful sonnet."

"But enough about me," he said, tilting his head at his friends curiously. "What sort of mischief have you two been up to?"

"... which brings us swiftly to what Sirius was about to say," James said smoothly, smirking victoriously at Sirius dreading sigh.

Perhaps this was what his parents felt – worried, scared, not happy at all and regretful. As much as he hated the feeling, he couldn't seem to shake it off like he usually would; the strict, bitter atmosphere throughout his childhood, the cold glares of his parents, the model little brother, the responsibility.

Maybe he was only hiding from the inevitable for all these years.

The thought made him feel heartless.

"Mate, is Helena alright?"

Shaking his head back to the present, he looked at his two friends; Remus looked at him, concerned eyebrows slightly knitted, while James seemed almost determined, as if he had already signed up to whatever he was about to say. After another moment of studying them, he felt a pang of annoyance; he shouldn't be afraid of a couple of petty words. Merlin knew he had to go through many things before.

He fiddled with the bandage Helena hastily wrapped around his head absentmindedly with his fingers – he had promptly pulled it off before to avoid curious questions, despite the fact that his head was thumping like mad and the wound hadn't fully healed.

Reckless.

"She's pregnant."

The two stared at him in shock, Firewhiskeys held limply in hand and deathly silent. Clearly feeling the urge to comfort Sirius, Remus went to say something but promptly shut his mouth after a few moments, just like a fish, hesitant and perplexed. Yet James looked as if he was about to burst into fits of laughter.

"You're having a baby?" he croaked, his lips spreading into a grin. "A little pup, Sirius?"

Sirius nodded.

"What're you doing here, then, mate?" Remus asked, chuckling at James's proclamation.

Guiltily, the Black rubbed at his forehead stressfully, his efforts on getting wasted pouring down the drain. "I needed a time to think."

If he thought his friends looked confused before, he was wrong – they were alike to little toddlers looking at the number one for the first time. "Why?" said James tentatively.

"I just _do_!" Sirius snapped, not meeting their eyes and his shoulders tense. "Death Eaters are on a manhunt for us, James – the last mission clearly told us that much!"

Remus looked almost offended. "You know we won't let them get you."

"You know I won't let them get her." Sirius clenched his jaw. "She doesn't even know that they're plotting the kill us – nor do I want her to."

"Why focus on that, though?" James said, his hazel eyes sharp with intensity. "Why let _him _win over your mind?"

"_I'm not letting him win_!" he barked, shooting up from his chair furiously. Half of the pub went silent, ogling at him curiously. Rosmerta paused in the middle of cleaning a glass, her movements like steel. "James, he's murdering people just like us _every fucking day_. I can't let him do that by just pretending he's not _there_."

"Sirius, we only want you to be happy –" Remus started, but Sirius wasn't really listening. Seething, he stormed out of the Three Broomsticks, slamming the door behind him more dramatically than he meant to.

Knowing the only thing that could calm him down was at home, he promptly Disapparated – the smell of cigarettes, petrol and musky wood loitering the cold night air.

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Their flat was dim and almost dark, the atmosphere of drying paint and freshly baked cheese buns – why she would bake cheese buns at ten o'clock at night he didn't know – greeting him as soon as he opened the door. "Lena?" he called, but his only reply was an annoyed "mm".

Snorting, he quickly slipped out of his combat boots and hanged his black cloak on a chair, swiftly making his way to their bedroom with grumpy measured steps, desperately wanting the assurance of his wife.

A pang of worry hit him – what if she was just as worried as he was? After all, she didn't have the best up-bringing, either, with unsupportive parents and only a grandmother to cling on to.

_And _she was pregnant. That clearly didn't mean she would be her usual bubbly, soothing self for at least a couple of months.

But instead of finding her glaring furiously at the wall, he found her curled up in the sheets, wearing one of his huge old shirts, her eyelids closed, golden curls messy and glinting even in the dim light. Shame filled his throat, pushing his worry and fury out of his mind in a beat.

He had been selfish, leaving her behind to focus on his insecurities. Stupidly, recklessly _selfish_.

"Sirius, I know you're there."

He jumped, letting out a short yelp of surprise before he changed into his shorts and plain grey shirt, momentarily thankful he could hold in his liquor well enough to hold a decent conversation. "Sorry."

"Just stop staring at me," she murmured, turning over to face away from him. "It's putting me off and I just need sleep."

"How long have you been in bed?"

"Since seven," she replied. "But obviously I couldn't, because you decided to go. It's dangerous at night, you know. For anyone."

He let out a sigh, climbing onto the bed and throwing his arms around her hips, tugging her closer to him. His lips kissed her neck, mumbling, "I'm sorry, Lena. I just need time."

At this, she turned, her remarkable hazel eyes boring into his grey with worry and a tint of anger. "I'll give you all the time I have, Sirius," she said, her voice upset. "You know that."

"I know. I'm – I'm sorry," he said meaningfully – he never really apologised too much, but when he did, he meant it. "This is – it's just a really, _really_ shit time to have a baby, Lena."

"I _have_ realised that," she said, laughing as if she had thought of it too many times to become momentous.

"It's just," he began, searching for words, Helena looking up at him patiently. "I'm not ready for _kids_."

She smiled. "Of course you're not," she said, her hand making patterns on his shirt. "Whoever told you anyone's ready for kids? Nobody ever _is_ ready until they are brave enough to venture on to find out regardless. You could be the most responsible man in the world, but you'd still be left in the dark. You'd still be nervous, scared – but I hope that everyone is that _little_ bit excited."

He crossed his eyebrows, thinking for a moment of her words. This was why he loved her; the things she'd say – sometimes seemingly simple and funny, sometimes highly wise and intellectual – was an adventure in itself, every day making him excited and keen. People wondered why he, the notorious Sirius Orion Black the Third, chose a Ravenclaw Muggleborn who had the social skills equivalent to Mrs Norris's.

It was because every day was different. It was because she intrigued him like no other woman had before.

And he was eternally thankful for it.

"I _will _be excited, love," he assured her, kissing her forehead gratefully. "I'm sorry. You deserve better than me –"

"Sirius, please don't start –"

He looked at her innocently. "I'm not starting, I'm simply stating a fact."

Rolling her eyes, she laughed her signature bubble of laughter, one that he was always overjoyed to hear. "Please."

"Fine. But I'll only ask of you this." His thumb stroked her cheek, her milky skin smooth and beautiful. "Wait for me. Wait for me to be the –" he swallowed, finding his next words strange, "the father you want me to be."

"I don't expect you to be _anyone_ –"

"Just promise me." His eyes were pleading, pathetically so. He didn't want her to leave him only because he didn't meet her expectations – just like his brother did. His mother did.

His father gave up a long time ago.

"I promise," she said, smiling sleepily. "Now can we sleep? I'm really tired and the Order meeting is tomorrow and ... nugh."

"You're preggers, love."

"Just put the bloody lights out, Sirius. I'm _not_ asking twice."

And that was why he loved his Helena Black.


End file.
